


a moment of roses

by lettertotheworld



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F, Late Night Confessions, internal struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 15:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16935855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettertotheworld/pseuds/lettertotheworld
Summary: She is scared of things that she doesn’t even understand. She is scared of breaking Misty to pieces. She is scared of the tarnish, the carnage—although, that was mostly brought to fruition earlier when Misty accused her of being in love with her. And she is scared of so many things that she shouldn’t be.(in which cordelia is a master of self sabotage and misty is having none of it)





	a moment of roses

**Author's Note:**

> this is just lots of feelings. disgusting romance. hella porn. idk! i love them a lot!

The antique grandfather clock in her office lets out a low, grating chime every hour on the hour. Based on this, Cordelia gathers that it is one in the morning. She also gathers that the house is uncharacteristically quiet as she ascends the grand staircase. Floorboards creak and hushed voices chatter, but there is none of the typical chaos, to be so late and to be the weekend. It’s strange. If she didn’t know any better, she would think this is a nunnery rather than a boarding school for young witches.

 

The toxicity has lessened significantly, she supposes. Instead of clawing and gnawing and dragging one another down like they were so fond of doing when Fiona was the Supreme, the girls all seem to prefer to rise together. They have learned, Cordelia thinks. They have learned, and they have decided not to make the same mistakes again.

 

(It’s difficult for her to attribute any of this to her own supremacy, but she does have the occasional moment of pride.)

 

Cordelia is always grateful to step into the muted confines of her bedroom after an excruciatingly long day. She leans against the wooden door as it shuts behind her, her palms resting flatly against the surface of the grain.

 

Then, a voice. A voice that knocks her senseless every time she hears it, regardless of the frequency.

 

“Hey.”

 

And it startles her, because why would anyone be in her room at this hour? Why would anyone be in her room while she isn’t? Why would anyone be sat in the middle of her bed in the dark?

 

“Jesus, Misty,” she says with a short exhale. Cordelia slips her heels off and pads over in her stockinged feet to flip the bedside lamp on. “You scared me.”

 

Misty is still scaring her, in fact, because not only is her face sunken and tinged with sadness, but it is also blotchy and red, and her ocean-blue eyes are swollen.

 

Cordelia does not need second sight to know Misty has been crying. Alone. In her room. On her bed. In the dark.

 

But Misty does not apologize for frightening her. Misty doesn’t even look like she realizes anything beyond the fact that Cordelia is here now, and Misty is no longer by herself.

 

“I’ve never been in your room before,” Misty tells her, which, yes, that much is true, but it’s not exactly an explanation. Misty turns her gaze to the collection of novels and spell books stacked neatly on the bookcase beside her vanity. “You have a lot of books.”

 

Cordelia doesn’t know why, but this makes her blush. Perhaps with embarrassment that Misty has noticed her dull, expansive bookshelf, or perhaps she is just unsettled by having Misty in her personal space. It feels far too intimate than anything they have ever ventured upon since they have known each other, and maybe that’s precisely why Misty has never been invited to her room before. Precisely why she has decided to invite herself.

 

Cordelia doesn’t entertain the thought for more than a few seconds before she is steadily making her way over to the vanity. She reaches for her left earring, a sapphire teardrop, and removes the backing.

 

“You can borrow whatever you’d like,” she says, blurts, really, not even bothering to wonder if Misty likes to read, or what genre she prefers if she does. There’s an infinite number of things they don’t know about each other. Tragic, Cordelia thinks to herself. That should be rectified.

 

“Madison got me drunk,” Misty informs her, the second untoward response she has made in the past few minutes.

 

So, Misty is drunk, then. This is all starting to make more sense as she is given tidbits of pieces of information.

 

Cordelia sets her earrings on the silver tray in front of her, then runs a brush through her hair. It’s getting long, and it tickles the skin of her décolletage that her dress exposes. She heaves a quiet sigh as she journeys into the adjoining bathroom. The water that pours from the faucet is warm, and the washcloth she uses to rid her face of makeup is soft, forgiving, as she presses it to her skin.

 

“Did she also make you cry?” she asks, because they were going to reach this point eventually, so Cordelia will take the first step. Or make the first leap, rather.

 

“Nope,” Misty mutters, sniffles, and Cordelia sees her wipe her eyes with the edge of her shawl. “That was all me, I guess.”

 

Cordelia clears her throat after rummaging through her wardrobe, searching for a nightgown. One that is not entirely inappropriate because Misty is here and already in a delicate state. Best not to push that. Best not to add fuel to this intricate fire.

 

Misty covers her face with her shawl, the fringe swaying along the sides with the movement, and Cordelia is appreciative of the gesture, appreciative of the preservation of her modesty. At least for the moment, that is. Misty is unpredictable, and she doesn’t even know why Misty is here, so the possibilities are, quite literally, endless.

 

The silk gown slides over her skin, smooth and soft, and she joins Misty on the bed. When it dips with the weight of her, Misty looks up, releasing the grip on her shawl.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cordelia asks, as gently as she can.

 

She feels dreadful for even allowing such a thought to pass through her mind, but Misty is beautiful like this. Misty is beautiful in many ways, but especially like this, with tear-stained cheeks and a broken heart over something that is still a mystery to Cordelia. Maybe it is the vulnerability. The unhinged openness of Misty granting Cordelia the frail, breakable moment of seeing her like this. It is raw, and it is real, and Cordelia is honored to be the one Misty seeks out when she is in shambles.

 

Cordelia would do the same, but she relies on only herself, and that has always (never) been enough.

 

It feels like grasping at the impossible, this moment. Like holding on to something that is trying to make its escape. The thing it feels like is Misty herself, turning to dust beneath Cordelia’s hands as she fumbles about, trying to gather the ashes from the carpet and finding nothing. But now, there is a something. It was a whisper before, during the Seven Wonders, and it was a thunderous scream after.

 

Another tragedy: Cordelia didn’t realize her feelings for Misty until she was dying in her arms.

 

But miracles often follow tragedies, and this time, one has. Misty is alive and well and warm and healing. Misty is here. They have made it this far. However, the inkling of loss is not really an inkling at all. It holds more weight than Cordelia would like. As if Misty could disappear just as quickly as she did last time, only it will be permanent.

 

The feeling lodges itself in Cordelia’s gut, a knife in the wound. She cannot dismiss this…their _connection_ again. She won’t.

 

“Do _you_ want to talk about it?” Misty counters, and, well.

 

No. No, Cordelia doesn’t want to talk about it. But she needs to, and sometimes that takes priority. But should it? Should it right now, or can it wait?

 

“Why are you assuming the reason you’re upset reconciles with mine?”

 

“Because it does.” Misty leans in closely, and it is a challenge, a bait that Cordelia must decide to take or refuse. “You know it does.”

 

She chooses denial because Misty is drunk and won’t remember this, anyway. She might understand why Misty is here now, but she still doesn’t know where they will end up when the night is over. She never knows where they will end up, and that’s the thing. That’s the whole, entire thing.

 

“No,” she says softly, “it’s…what you’re feeling isn’t—”

 

“What I’m feelingis that there’s a lot of shit you haven’t told me,” Misty interrupts fiercely, and this is the first time tonight that her voice has sounded stable.

 

Cordelia could tell Misty that she is crazy, that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and that all Cordelia has ever been with her is honest. But that would be a lie.

 

Misty has had some sort of epiphany tonight, in her drunken state. Among the stupor of liquor, Misty has found something. She has found truth, and now she’s not letting it go, even if Cordelia wishes she would. Even if it would be so much easier that way.

 

So, she won’t lie, and she also won’t be the first one to say it. She will not take this away from her. She will let Misty speak.

 

“There is,” Cordelia confirms, and the spark in Misty’s eyes burns brighter, spurred on by Cordelia’s admission.

 

“How do you live like this?” Misty asks, voice cracking on the final syllable as if she is in pain just from the question leaving her tongue. “How do you—it _hurts_. I could never keep this locked up, trapped inside of me. Just…just to let it _rot_ , like it doesn’t even matter.”

 

Misty’s words bump into one another, intoxication causing them to slur, and Misty is referring to love now, Cordelia thinks. A word meant to conceptualize everything Cordelia feels for her, but it could never. Love doesn’t begin to describe it. Nothing does. That’s why she didn’t say anything sooner. That, and the fact that there was not a chance in hell Misty could ever, ever reciprocate those feelings. At least, that’s what Cordelia had thought.

 

“Maybe alcohol would have pushed it out of me like it’s doing for you,” she muses aloud, but this is wrong because Misty looks devastated now. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean it that way. I know you believe everything you’re saying right now.”

 

“But you don’t.”

 

And how can she? This immaculate, wonderful thing that she has been dreaming of, that she has been _craving_ , is suddenly a reality just because Misty has had too much whiskey? Just because Misty has come to realize what Cordelia has known for two years? It doesn’t seem possible. Misty will forget this conversation when the sun rises.

 

“I just think you want answers. That doesn’t necessarily mean you’re ready for them at the moment.”

 

“I _do_ want answers,” Misty says desperately, moving closer, and Cordelia can feel the warmth of her now as Misty reaches for her hands, grips them tightly in her own.

 

Cordelia is lost in the contact for a moment, and it is silent between them, but it is not an empty silence. Misty’s rings are cold against the skin of her knuckles, and that sensation is the only thing helping her to think clearly. She tethers herself to it.

 

“Okay,” she whispers, nods, and swallows, and with one word, her resolve is gone. The walls are down, and she may never fully reconstruct them.

 

Misty rubs soothing circles over Cordelia’s wrist with her thumb, stares at her for an unsettling amount of time with eyes that force their way into Cordelia’s very soul.

 

“When did you know?” Misty asks, and if the room weren’t already so quiet, she wouldn’t be able to hear her.

 

Misty’s eyes follow the movement of Cordelia’s lips as she speaks.

 

“When I lost you.”

 

Cordelia will not ask when Misty knew, if she ever did, because Misty is disoriented and under strain and does not need to have her emotions taken advantage of when she is in a state that does not allow her to fully make sense of them.

 

She would also like to not start crying, but that is blown to shit when she feels a tear slide down her cheek. She releases Misty’s hands, untangles them from her own, and uses the back of her hand to wipe her face, puts some distance between them by rising from her place on the bed.

 

The last time Cordelia thought she was in love, it nearly cost her the entire coven. A sham of a marriage, put to rest by blood, murder, and betrayal. She’s not dense enough to believe she actually loved Hank, because further reflection on her part tells her it was a cheap tactic to piss Fiona off, and, yes, it worked, it worked _overtime_.

 

And a relationship with Misty could not possibly be so destructive, not with Misty’s disposition. Hank was a man, and that was his biggest flaw, Cordelia thinks. His most extreme downfall and the reason he was not what she needed. But that sort of wound never really heals. She is cursed, probably, by her own devices, and certainly by the supremacy.

 

It wouldn’t _work_ , it wouldn’t be the thing she has idealized for them. It would go down in flames. Why take the risk when Misty is safe from hell? She’s back with her coven, which is all Cordelia has wanted, and that is enough, will _have_ to be enough.

 

“It’s late,” Cordelia tells her, “and you need to rest.”

 

“Alright,” Misty allows, voice quiet, and lifts her shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “Let me sleep here.”

 

Cordelia shakes her head immediately, refusing the proposition. She doesn’t think she could handle Misty sleeping in her bed. The confusion on her face when she wakes up and realizes where she is, wonders how she got here and what happened the night before. Cordelia has all but emptied her heart tonight, depleted it, and it’s one thing for the alcohol to make Misty forget, but it is another to be forced to watch it happen come sunrise.

 

“That’s a bad idea,” she says, and she has to clear her throat just to make the words come out. “You need…to sleep this off.”

 

“Why? So I won’t remember it?” Misty stands now, balance faltering only slightly, and walks closer to Cordelia until they are breathing the same air, until it is dangerous. “What are you so scared of?”

 

A loaded question, Cordelia thinks dryly, and one she cannot answer. Not completely. She is scared of things that she doesn’t even understand. She is scared of breaking Misty to pieces. She is scared of the tarnish, the carnage—although, that was mostly brought to fruition earlier when Misty accused her of being in love with her. And she is scared of so many things that she shouldn’t be.

 

Misty doesn’t seem to share her fears. If Misty was afraid at all, she wouldn’t be drawing nearer, wouldn’t be edging closer and placing gentle hands on Cordelia’s face. But she is, and Cordelia is at a loss. Her heart pounds, and she can’t form the words, can’t speak. But she doesn’t need to.

 

She doesn’t need to because Misty leans in and kisses her slowly, and, yes, consistently unpredictable, Cordelia thinks. Misty’s affection is traditionally the quiet kind, Cordelia has observed, but she has opted for intensity in this moment. Such a strong, distinguished intensity that Cordelia isn’t physically capable of _not_ kissing her back. She grabs Misty’s shoulders for purchase and gives into this. She lets go of her fears that sting like poison in her brain, and it feels _good_ , to disregard, to indulge. Irresponsible, and probably a very bad thing, but also good.

 

Her heart swells in her chest, pumps steadily, ferociously, within her ribcage. Misty’s mouth is warm, soft beneath her own, and she feels hands in her hair, nails scratching lightly over her scalp, and she whimpers. She bites Misty’s bottom lip, and Misty sighs into her mouth, desperately, pleadingly.

 

Misty’s tongue slides over Cordelia’s own, and Cordelia tastes the whiskey. The despair rushes back as quickly as it had vanished. She is pulling back, back and away, and Misty’s eyes are still closed as she shakes her head.

 

“Hm-mm,” she mumbles in dissent, words of opposition springing to the forefront of her mind, but she can’t make any of them translate. “No, you’re—no.”

 

Misty’s eyes flutter open, and they are wide with wanting and wishing, and _no_. No, if this is going to happen, if they are going to happen, then it’s not going to happen like _this_ , Cordelia thinks stubbornly.

 

“Cordelia—”

 

“Go to bed,” she requests gently, guiding Misty over to the four-poster canopy. “Sleep. And we can talk about it tomorrow.”

 

_When you’re not drunk_ , she doesn’t bother to add.

 

Misty holds her gaze for a long while as she sits on the bed, as Cordelia stands before her, and Cordelia begins to shift beneath it, begins to grow unnerved. It is a heavy, lingering thing that settles deep in Cordelia, in her bones, her veins, until her body is buzzing with the possibility of Misty. With the memory of her lips.

 

“You promise?” Misty asks in a small voice, but she doesn’t look away.

 

She reaches a hand out to play with Misty’s hair, dragging her fingers along the messy curls, brushes it back over Misty’s shoulder. And she nods.

 

“Yes,” she whispers, leaning down and briefly pressing her lips to Misty’s forehead. “Yes, I promise.”

 

 

 

//

 

 

 

The light of dawn is harsh as it pushes through the sheer curtains, and the room has taken a slight chill during the night. Cordelia shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, pulls the woolen blanket up around her neck. She let Misty have her bed to herself for reasons that are obvious. Reasons that Cordelia would rather not think about.

 

“You’re shivering.”

 

Oh. Misty is…already awake. Sitting up in the bed, staring at her from across the room.

 

Her expression is one of shame. Or maybe regret. Cordelia had tried to tell her, had tried to _warn_ her. It hurts just as badly as Cordelia feared it would.

 

Misty’s eye makeup is smudged, and her voice is weighted with sleep, and Cordelia feels the overwhelming stab of pain at Misty first thing in the morning, looking like a complete vision.

 

“It’s cold,” she tells her, tone sharp. “I forgot to turn the fireplace on last night.”

 

Silence.

 

Cordelia closes her eyes and hopes that Misty will either leave the room or go back to sleep. It’s not humiliation. It’s not degradation. It’s just…pain. Self-loathing. She wishes she’d exhibited more control. Wishes she hadn’t let Misty kiss her, wishes she hadn’t kissed Misty back. Because now, this is what they are. They are made of mistakes and foggy memories. That’s what they’re going to be now, and it isn’t something that can be undone.

 

Cordelia only hopes Misty doesn’t ask her to recount last night’s events; she doesn’t think she’s capable of lying to her, and _that_ would be a messy conversation.

 

“Come here,” Misty says, voice soft, vulnerable. She watches Misty scoot over to the left side of the bed and toss back the plush duvet, exposing the sheets beneath. Misty pats the empty space next to her. “Come here.”

 

Cordelia puffs out her cheeks and releases a ragged breath.

 

She has a biting remark on the tip of her tongue, something bitter, sarcastic, about Misty wanting to _warm her up_. But she is not opening that door. Not when they have barely spoken more than a few words to each other and the day has just begun. There is no place for hostility in this moment, not right now. She doesn’t feel like arguing.

 

So, she throws the blanket off of herself and rises to her feet, and Misty watches her walk over, watches her sit down beside her. Cordelia wishes she would stop looking at her like that. Like Cordelia has broken her heart.

 

(Maybe she has. Can hearts be broken by undisclosed information? By secrets? No, she thinks. It takes action. Words. Right?)

 

Misty has every right to be upset with her, probably. Cordelia is a coward. She is weak and afraid, through and through. This is no different, and with Misty she wishes it could be, but she is too consumed. Too stuck in her own head, ready to let the two of them wilt before they ever truly blossomed.

 

“How are you feeling?” she asks, because this tension, this stalemate they’ve reached, is causing sweat to spring to Cordelia’s palms, is making her throat constrict so she has to swallow, swallow words, swallow emotion.

 

“I remember,” Misty whispers, and when Cordelia’s eyebrows pull together in confusion, Misty continues. “I do. I remember everything and more. I remember the day we met, remember you…offering me a home. I remember spending time with you, in the greenhouse, and I remember hearing your voice. During the Seven Wonders. And not being able to—to reach you. Then I was stuck, but I remember coming back, coming home, and seeing _you_.” Misty’s eyes fill with tears, but she manages a small, sad smile. “And I remember last night. Even if you don’t want me to.”

 

“Misty.”

 

“You…” Misty reaches out, her thumb tracing over Cordelia’s bottom lip, catching against it and tugging it slightly down, so Cordelia’s mouth is open for her, “you don’t have to be afraid.”

 

Cordelia lets out a sound of disbelief, shakes her head and blinks her own tears away. Misty’s thumb moves to Cordelia’s cheekbone, stroking over the skin and swiping away a stray tear.

 

But this _is_ something to be afraid of, and she is terrified. She is terrified. Her pulse jumps, her nerves spike, and her skin tingles everywhere Misty touches her.

 

But then, she sees something in Misty’s eyes. A glimmer, a gleam, a flicker of a _feeling_. One she knows well. One she often feels when Misty is near, especially this near, and then…then, there is a maybe.

 

There is a maybe, because they understand each other. There is a maybe, because Misty withholds her truth until someone asks to see it. There is a maybe, because now, Cordelia is asking. Now, Misty is telling.

 

This is the same. They share this, and Cordelia is not alone. Was never alone. The problem was communication. The problem was fear. The problem was that there were a lot of problems. She is crying now, openly, and her hand shakily moves to place itself over Misty’s heart, because she needs to know, completely. She needs to know that they are safe here.

 

Cordelia feels the rapid, stuttering _thumpthump_ of Misty’s heartbeat once, then twice, then she is leaning in. Leaning in to Misty, leaning in to the maybe, leaning in to this love. That’s what this is, she decides. Nothing else. It is love because it has to be.

 

She kisses Misty recklessly, and it is probably one of the only truly reckless things she has done in her life, but in the best way. In the most fulfilling way. It’s not sticking a hand in the flames and getting burned. It’s not bated breath underwater. It’s freedom, a reckless, momentous freedom.

 

Cordelia tilts her head, deepens the kiss, with one hand still on Misty’s chest at her clavicle and the other at the bottom of her spine. Misty sucks lightly at Cordelia’s bottom lip, silently begging _more_ , and Cordelia satisfies her plea, would heinously raze the earth with flagrant disregard if Misty so much as batted her eyelashes and asked. She feels Misty’s hands at her waist, fingertips pressing into the silk of her nightgown, and suddenly, Misty is not the only one demanding more.

 

Cordelia draws back, pants softly as her forehead rests against Misty’s, and chooses her next move carefully, with precision. She sits up, gracefully swinging a leg over Misty’s lap, effectively straddling her. Effectively pinning Misty beneath her weight. Misty slides her hands from Cordelia’s hips to her thighs, providing a steady balance as Cordelia sheds her nightgown. When she tosses it behind her, it lands at the foot of the bed, and Misty has maintained eye contact. Watching. Waiting.

 

She presses kiss-swollen lips to Misty’s once more, and it is a headier rush this time around. The stakes have been raised, so to speak. Misty kisses her back furiously, frantically, and she dips her tongue into Misty’s mouth, groans with reverence. She inhales sharply when Misty’s hands dance over her stomach, grazing her sides, moving up to close around her ribcage. Misty’s thumbs press into her skin just below her breasts, and she breaks the kiss, her lungs burning, craving oxygen as other, more important parts of her crave Misty.

 

The column of Misty’s neck is bared, almost in a request, and Cordelia lowers her mouth, pushing Misty’s shawl over her shoulders, and it falls to the pillow behind her, a sheer ocean of fabric.

 

Misty gasps softly just by Cordelia’s right ear as she fastens her lips to Misty’s pulse, sucks the warm skin into her mouth, then releases it to run her tongue along the length of Misty’s jawline. She gets lost placing bruising kisses, distributing bites and soothing them in the next instant, stoking this flame between them. When Misty’s hips lurch up into Cordelia’s, she moans into Misty’s neck, the noise vibrating off of her skin, resonating throughout the room.

 

Her stomach coils tightly, and she’s pushing her own hips down, seeking a rhythm until their bodies are writhing against each other. This will not do for much longer, Cordelia thinks. The dam will have to be broken, and she’s going to be the one to break it.

 

She lifts her head to look into Misty’s darkened eyes, glazed over with hunger, with lust, and seeing Misty like this, on the brink of ravishing and being ravished, causes her to bite her lip in anticipation. She can feel warm, gentle puffs of air against her face as Misty tries to catch her breath. Can feel Misty’s grip tighten around her torso.

 

Cordelia is just as breathless, just as bedraggled, and when she speaks, her voice is an octave higher, belying the calm demeanor she is striving for.

 

“You were right,” she tells her, pushing hair behind Misty’s ear. “I’ve kept things from you.”

 

“Why?” Misty asks.

 

Cordelia inhales a steady breath and shakes her head.

 

“I never _imagined_. That we could ever be anything else. I told myself that the timing wasn’t right, and that it never would be, and I buried it. But I should have been honest with you. I should have told you, I should have told the whole _world_.”

 

Misty smiles, and it reaches her eyes, and it is criminally beautiful.

 

“Yeah, you should have,” Misty jibes, sliding her hands down Cordelia’s sides once, then back up. “Could’ve been doing this the whole damn time.”

 

Misty’s hands roam around to Cordelia’s back, fingertips tracing her spine, the band of her bra, then she hesitates at the clasp. Cordelia watches her, Misty’s expression forming the perfect question, and Cordelia nods.

 

“Do it,” she whispers, and holds her breath.

 

There is a pull, then a release, and Cordelia is bared from the waist up. She watches Misty’s throat tense as she swallows, and slowly, deliberately, Misty ducks her head. Cordelia tangles Misty’s hair in clenched fists as Misty’s nose skims along her skin, across her collarbone, then Misty presses a kiss to Cordelia’s sternum. She wonders if Misty can feel her erratic heartbeat under her lips. She hopes she can.

 

For all the wanting she has done, she never expected the heat that floods her body when Misty traces her tongue over the swell of her breast to be so intense. She did not expect to be so thoroughly decimated so soon, so suddenly. It happens without warning, the rush of arousal. She is back to grinding her hips into Misty’s, rutting against her as Misty takes a nipple between her teeth.

 

Cordelia tries to say Misty’s name, but she gets stuck on the first letter, and the rest of it turns into a low hum of approval. Her eyes are closed with bliss, and she shivers from the overwhelming sensation of Misty’s face in her chest. She uses her leverage in Misty’s hair to pull her up, to pull her in for a messy kiss that is more tongue than anything else.

 

“Take this off,” she gasps harshly into her mouth, tugging at the bottom of Misty’s dress.

 

She leans back, allowing Misty the space to do so, and observes fondly as a flush spreads from Misty’s face down her neck, ending at her chest in a soft pink gradient. Misty leans over the side of the bed and drops her dress to the floor. Cordelia climbs back to her lap with newfound passion, kissing Misty with purpose, dragging her teeth over Misty’s bottom lip as one of her hands drops to Misty’s shoulder, down her chest, until she reaches her breast. Cordelia kneads her palm against soft flesh, and Misty releases a quiet whine from the back of her throat.

 

Cordelia feels hands gripping her ass, then feels one dip over her waist, sliding along the waistband of her panties. Misty is breathless as she glances up at Cordelia.

 

“Is this—”

 

“Yes,” Cordelia interrupts, nodding once with certainty, unbothered by the raspy pitch of her own voice. “Yes. Touch me.”

 

Misty fits her hand beneath Cordelia’s panties, softly grazing her with her knuckle, and Cordelia squirms, her hips jolting at the contact. Then Misty takes two of her fingers and slides them along smooth, wet warmth, up to her clitoris.

 

She is drawing this out, Cordelia thinks, and it is _agonizing_ pleasure. Her body is humming, her blood pumping. She needs this. Now.

 

Cordelia snags Misty’s wrist, catching it in her grasp, and lines two of Misty’s fingers up with her entrance. She sinks down onto them in a single, slow movement, gaze burning into Misty’s all the while. Misty’s hand stalls, unmoving, as she watches Cordelia above her.

 

“It’s okay,” she tells Misty, and hears Misty sigh out a breath of marvel as her fingers begin to shift inside of her.

 

Cordelia drops her forehead to Misty’s, rotating her hips in time with Misty’s motion, biting her lip to stifle a resounding moan. Misty’s mouth finds Cordelia’s neck, and Cordelia throws her head back to give her all the access she needs. Misty’s teeth mark her skin, biting and nipping and stinging. She rides Misty’s hand at a gradual pace, both of them filling the quiet of the room with audible groans and pants, and Misty brings the tips of her fingers forward, pressing, searching, rubbing against her anterior wall as the pad of her thumb finds Cordelia’s clit.

 

She feels herself clench around Misty’s fingers, slighting her hips more quickly as her thighs tremble.

 

“Misty,” she breathes, whimpers her name three more times like it is worship. Like it holds all the significance of a prayer.

 

(It does.)

 

“I’ve got you,” Misty whispers at her ear, taking the lobe between her teeth, her other hand resting at the small of Cordelia’s back, blunt nails digging into her skin, scratching lines down her back.

 

She cries out, and her whole body wracks with a shudder. Her breath halts as her back arches, and she comes all over Misty’s hand as Misty’s thumb lightly circles her clit, slowly bringing her back down.

 

Cordelia hums contentedly, relishing the lingering tremors. She grabs Misty’s face and brings their lips together in a vehement kiss, her tongue stroking along Misty’s.

 

And, this is well and good, but this is not the taste of Misty that she yearns for right now. She needs Misty at her mercy, her face between her legs as Misty sighs and gasps and—

 

“Lie down,” Cordelia commands, voice rough and fervent.

 

She pushes Misty’s shoulders gently, and Misty’s head falls to the pillow behind her, unkempt hair fanning out in every direction. Cordelia’s nails rake over Misty’s thighs, leaving savage, crimson marks in their wake. She hooks her thumbs beneath Misty’s panties and discards them, does not bother with taking her time. Not yet. When she gets her mouth on her, then she will exaggerate the process, but now, Cordelia needs to see her.

 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Cordelia groans, her throat suddenly dry at the sight of Misty, legs spread to either side for her. She presses her face into Misty’s thigh, dropping an open-mouthed kiss to the skin there. “Jesus, you’re _wet_.”

 

Misty hums in agreement, biting her lip.

 

“I need you,” Misty tells her, voice pitched slightly higher than normal, and it sounds like begging. She thinks Misty can probably do better than that, but she won’t make her right now. “Cordelia.”

 

Yes, that’s good enough. That is _more_ than just good enough. Misty’s desire is evident, and it’s for Cordelia, it’s _because_ of her, and it is _for_ her. She doesn’t wait for Misty to request a third time. She presses a kiss to Misty’s pubic bone, the top of her hood, then moves down, strokes the flat of her tongue over her, up to her clit where she focuses for a moment.

 

Misty’s hands grip her hair tightly as she rolls her hips into Cordelia’s face, and Cordelia wraps an arm under each of Misty’s thighs, her fingers digging into the flesh, holding her in place as she sucks Misty’s clitoris into her mouth. She goes slowly, alternating between using her tongue and her lips, and scrapes her teeth ever so gently over her clit once just to hear Misty’s guttural cry.

 

“ _Cordelia_ ,” Misty whines, grinding against Cordelia’s mouth.

 

Cordelia buries her face deeper, dips her tongue lower, teasing at Misty’s entrance. She feels the muscles of Misty’s thighs tense and quiver. Misty arches off the bed slightly, tossing her head back, squirming and shaking.

 

She places a hand on Misty’s stomach, feels her clench at the touch, and slows the pace. She matches the rhythmic movement of Misty’s hips until Misty is moaning with every added pressure of her tongue and the grip she has on Cordelia’s hair becomes unbearable. Misty comes with Cordelia’s name on her lips, and Cordelia does not stop there, does not ever want to stop.

 

Her tongue traces light patterns over Misty’s clit, and she pushes Misty through another shuddering orgasm, is entertaining the thought of adding her fingers just as Misty pulls her up to her. She drags Cordelia’s body flush against her own, and Cordelia places a kiss to her jaw, then her cheek.

 

“You know,” she says, voice low, “maybe this was horrible of us.” She moves her head down, rests it on Misty’s shoulder. “I might never let you leave this bed again.”

 

Cordelia can’t see it, but she can hear the smile in Misty’s voice, can feel her chest jump as she huffs out a quiet breath of laughter.

 

“I might be okay with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> perhaps i will never stop writing for them. my twitter is @bourbonstdyke if anyone wants to chat abt these two :~)


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